Frontier Agreement. Shannon Farrington
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the snow from his moccasins, Pierre stepped into the tiny room. The light of a single candle glowed. Captain Lewis was bent over his writing desk, scrawling out reports for his commander, President Thomas Jefferson.
My President, Pierre thought. In Washington. Not that long ago, Pierre had sworn allegiance to the emperor in France, but with Bonaparte’s sale of the Louisiana territory, he had become an American. What a strange new world.
Captain Lewis returned his quill to the inkwell, looked up. “What is it, Mr. Lafayette?” he asked.
“Pardon the disturbance, sir, but there are two women here to see you. They’ve brought a young boy in need of medical treatment.”
As a Virginia gentleman and the son of a devout Christian mother, the captain was never one to turn away a soul in need. He immediately stood. “Show them in.”
Pierre did so at once, introducing Mademoiselle Manette as a translator. Captain Lewis nodded to Spotted Eagle and his mother, then asked Miss Manette, “What exactly ails the boy?”
Pierre spoke for her. “The lady doesn’t understand much English, sir.”
The lady quickly corrected him. “Understand? Oui. Speak? No.”
Captain Lewis suppressed a smile as Pierre tried unsuccessfully to will the color from his face. She’s French for certain, he thought, for she has no trouble speaking her mind.
* * *
Claire resisted the urge to clamp her hand over her mouth as the two men stared at her. The dark-haired Frenchman was embarrassed, the American captain somewhat bemused. Apparently the scent of smoke-saturated wool, the writing desk and small raised bed had made her forget where she was.
She had been born in a room not unlike this one, in a small cabin in Illinois. There her father used to tell her she was passionate to a fault where truth was concerned. But he always said it with a smile, Claire mused, and he said he believed the quality would serve me well.
So far it had not. Such plainspokenness did not sit well in a village where women were treated little better than pack animals. She loved her Mandan family, her mother’s people, her people, but after six months among them, six hard months trying to assimilate into the culture, she still was not fully accepted. She was Mandan, but she was also white, and she had taken up the white man’s religion.
Yet from the looks of the two men before me, I am not quite white enough, she thought. I’m a curious creature, and no doubt they think me gullible and naive.
She wasn’t either of those things, and she wouldn’t be taken advantage of by any white man, be he dressed in decorated uniform or common buckskin. She had learned that lesson the hard way. She was, however, intelligent enough to recognize God’s provision when she saw it. Spotted Eagle was on the verge of becoming very ill. She needed the captain’s help.
Claire quickly explained her presence. The Frenchman was still staring at her, but at least he had the decency to translate her words. Thankfully, the American captain wasted no time. He examined Spotted Eagle personally.
“What have you applied as poultice?” he asked her.
“Comfrey and calendula to ease the pain,” she said. “Also yarrow.”
The American nodded his approval. “The yarrow has kept it from festering, but it has not treated the cause.” He probed the boy’s back more closely. Spotted Eagle winced.
“It will be over soon,” the captain promised him with a smile.
Claire appreciated the man’s attempt to comfort her cousin’s young son. So far, relations between the natives and the white men had been cordial. Captains Lewis and Clark had insisted the government that had sent them wished to promote peace and trade. From what Claire had observed, the trade had been fair. She hoped it would remain that way. The white man’s presence could be an opportunity to reflect the light of God’s love.
Or it could detract from it, she thought, for Claire had met men before who claimed to love God but did not extend the same care to His people.
The Frenchman was still staring.
What are you looking at, sir? she wanted to say, but she already knew the answer.
Feeling more uncomfortable by the moment, Claire returned her gaze to the captain. Her eyes followed his every move. He applied a poultice, then gave Spotted Eagle a pill to swallow. After several repeated sips of water, the very large object finally went down.
“Keep on with the poultices for a few more days,” the captain told Claire.
The doctoring now finished, Little Flower presented her sack of corn to him. Claire was pleasantly surprised that he took only half.
“Please tell her that her payment is more than adequate,” he said.
Claire nodded, then delivered the message in Mandan. Little Flower was most pleased. After reclaiming her sack, she bowed several times to the captain. Then she did the same to the Frenchman beside him. The men bowed formally in return.
Claire curtsied. “Merci,” she said.
Eager to be on her way, she then reached for Spotted Eagle’s hand. The Frenchman opened the door.
A cold blast of wind stung her face. Stepping outside, Claire could feel the eyes of the men around her. One particular soldier grinned. Little Flower returned his look, but Claire, drawing her buffalo robe closer, kept her eyes down as she tramped steadily back toward the village. The snow crunched beneath her moccasins. Already it was deep, and there was much more winter still to come.
Spotted Eagle trudged along quietly, but Little Flower chatted excitedly. She seemed confident the excursion to the fort had proven worth their effort. “White men have great power,” she proclaimed. “Strong medicine.”
“The power does not come from white men,” Claire corrected her gently. “If the American captain’s medicine heals Spotted Eagle, it will be because the God of Heaven, the true Great Spirit, ordains it so.”
To that, Little Flower said nothing.
Open their eyes, Lord, please.
It was a prayer Claire had offered numerous times as she and her mother labored to be a light for the Lord in this village. More than anything she wished for the salvation of her cousins, her uncle Running Wolf and the rest of the Mandan people. But were their efforts really accomplishing anything, or were their “curious ways,” as her uncle put it, their refusal to participate in certain tribal customs, only further alienating the kinsmen they so desperately wished to see come to Christ?
Running Wolf had taken them in because Claire’s mother was his own flesh and blood and because her husband had been a friend to the Mandan people, but more than once he had stated he would not worship François Manette’s supposed all-powerful God or His son, Jesus. “I will not become like white men.”
Neither Claire nor her mother wished their Mandan family to forget their heritage. All they wanted was for their tribe to know the true creator, to experience His life, the life He intended, free from superstitious fear, free from disease propagated by sin.
But truth be told, there was another reason Claire was desperate for the conversion of her family. She was of marriageable age—well beyond it, in fact, by tribal standards. Upon her arrival in the village, her uncle had given her one year to mourn her father. “After that, you will be given to a husband.”
Claire inwardly sighed. She, like any young woman her age, wanted a home and a family of her own. But how am I to wed a man who does not share my faith? Without such, there can be no true union of heart or mind or spirit. Her parents had shared such a love. She wanted the same.
If Running Wolf were to come to faith in Christ, he would understand that. Then he would not insist I wed an unbeliever.
“Perhaps, Bright Star,” Little Flower said, referring to Claire by her Mandan name, “you will find a husband